Morse sat pondering the case of the murdered Colonel. Who else knew that Juan was on the run? Was it a government sponsored hit? That wasn't unknown in these parts. Suddenly the silence was broken.
"Morse! Come quick. It's Father Fergus!" The voice belonged to the accountant. Morse hurried to the train's swimming pool with the accountant and Mr Birbee following behind. There he found the priest floating face down, wearing a Celtic football kit. Two dead and we hadn't even reached Dolgoprudny.
"How long before we can open the pool again?" asked the accountant.
"You bean counters are all the same. No feelings for anything except money. This is a crime scene. Damn it, this whole train is a crime scene." Morse wandered away, his pulse racing. There was a lunatic on board and it was going to be damn hard to find him. Just then a woman screamed. It came from the train's billiards room. Morse hurried there at once.
Madame B was shaking. "Look! He's dead!" She pointed to the billiards table. On the table was the naked body of Lowton, the pickled egg fanatic. It was not a pretty sight. He was face down. Inserted into his anus was a particularly large pickled egg. It was going to take the undertaker a week to get the smile off Lowton's face. Three down! Morse had never seen a case like it. Usually the adverts came along and he could nip down the pub for a pint before the next stiff turned up. Not this time. He sat down by the billiards table. He was becoming depressed by his failure to identify the killer.
"Hello Morse. A bird in the hand gathers no moss." It was J.Agged-One, the internationally famous downhill ballroom dancer. "I'm on my way to a competition in Vladivostok. Thought I'd have a holiday first. Travel broadens the mind. My mind is broad. I don't mind that my mind is broad." Morse smiled. It was either that or cry. He knew he was being tested. And so far he was failing.